Wednesday, July 31, 2013

I was driving, as usual. So many things happen on this particular stretch of Hollywood Boulevard, two lanes of traffic on either side, the W hotel, the Pantages theater, a tattoo parlor, a couple of restaurants, flashing neon signs, a car dealership. It's weird how the sound of agitated voices can cut through all that, but it does, easily. I turned down the radio and opened the window to figure out where it was coming from. I saw a guy, handsome and fit, he was big actually, standing in the middle of the street I was turning on. He had his fists half raised and was giving a "you want this?" look to a cluster of about five 18 year old street kids. They were yelling something and holding on to each other. They were dirty and probably lived and slept on the street, but they were laughing. I couldn't hear anything except fuck and fuckin and fuck you. Even though there were more of them, it was easy to see they were threatened, they were the ones backing away, but they kept yelling. Every time the guy made a few steps towards them they flurried like a group of pigeons.

It's weird how paths cross, how people come into your life, cause chaos, stress, agitation and then they are gone. Two properties mix, cause an explosion, dust settles. What the hell? Is there a reason for it? Are you supposed to take a good long look, do some evaluation, figure it out. Or do you say say, eh, it's just a random thing, whatever. Doesn't everyone want good things? Sweetness? Love?

Anyway, here I was in my car. On my usual path home. Watching. I was eating nuts actually, salty almonds I just got from Trader Joe's. It's weird that it took all of 5 seconds to assess the entire thing. It was a situation. The kids were on one side of me, the guy on the other, maybe eight feet away in each direction. I had salt on my fingers and I was licking it off while I was driving and watching the whole thing like it was a TV show. I had the thought, now is the moment someone takes out a gun, and a stray bullet goes through my car window and gets stuck in my head. What a way to go. Eating salty almonds. Driving. That says nothing about me. Just as I was thinking this I saw one of the kids throw a glass bottle; it arced and spun through the air. We all stopped to watch. It only took a second really. It went in slow motion, top over bottom, right over my car, and then splat-shattered on the sidewalk 10 feet away from anything.

He blows smoke through his nose and shakes his head slowly like he's laughing. But he's not smiling.

You ain't involved in no drugs baby, relax. Don't fool.

Okay.

Close your eyes if you have to. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you. Just think.

I do as I'm told. I breathe. I try to relax. I can feel the menthol from the smoke in the back of my throat. Even though my eyes are closed tight I can feel him looking at me. I can feel his eyes like the palm of a hand on my cheek. When I open my eyes, he is staring right at me waiting for the answer. I stare right back so hard I get a lump in my throat. I speak slowly.

You're here because you want to tell me that I need to pay attention to myself. I need to focus on what I have, not what I don't have ( that's right) I need to love myself. I need to take care of my own (uh-huh). I need to be honest (to yourself) and... good things will happen.

I rush out this last sentence because I'm embarrassed to say it. It sounds childish. I'm afraid he's going to say, "Don't be an idiot. It don't work like that." I feel tears come to my eyes at how stupid I am for wishing. I wait for him to say simply, but kindly, Don't be a fool.

But he doesn't.

Instead he just softens his gaze and tilts his head: A person's got to have a code. Ya'll know that. The game's out there, and it's play or get played. That simple.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Yesterday I was at Von's laughing so hard I had to stop walking. I had just texted a friend something so vile and horrific I couldn't control myself. His response was That's not even physically possible. I probably should have been self-conscious but I wasn't, because the grocery store is like my home. I am comfortable there. If you don't like to see a person leaning against a stack of Coke cases laughing with her eyes closed, just step off! Go to another store.

I have written at least five posts about my experiences at the grocery store and this is one of my favorites:

Prison Vons

You know, I can’t really tell this story without somehow demeaning it, but I have to tell it anyway. Weird things happen to me in the grocery store. I mean, I go there once a day, either to the Vons on Sunset or the one on Alvarado so I guess the odds sort of lean towards that. Sometimes it's my only social activity of the day.

The Vons on Alvarado we call Prison Vons because it has a 10-foot high chain fence around it. Usually there is a group of gutter punks out in front. They don’t shower but they have i-phones and Doc Martins. Without making eye contact, they ask me if I can spare some change. No I can’t spare some change, you’re 25, get a FUCKING JOB, I say, in my head, tourette’s style. I wonder if I said these things out loud, if I would come across as insane and troubled, or wise and righteous. Yeah, don’t tell me, I know.

Once I get inside I’m heading towards the produce aisle. Every minute or so, there is a loud clap of thunder and then a spray mist over the fruits and veg to make them look fresh and tasty. I have never heard this particular sound effect in any other grocery store and always look around to make eye contact with someone when it happens. You know, “Hey, how about that? Isn’t that fun? Thunder. Inside? Followed by a tropical rain mist?” No one else shares my enthusiasm. Who gets used to a thunderstorm inside the grocery store?

I get my items and head to the line. Of course there is a back up. I take a step to the side and crane my neck to see the hold up, ready to let loose some more tourette’s in my head. Just as I do, another line opens up and there is a stampede to get to it. Once the dust settles, I can see the reason for the hold up. It’s a guy in a wheel chair, he’s fully paralyzed from the neck down and the clerk had to come around and unload his basket for him. He turns around and smiles like he’s king of the castle.

Sorry for the hold up, he says.

No one says anything, which is my usual prompt to speak. It’s ok, I can check up on the world news, I say holding up a People mag.

Oh yeah? What’s happening?

Kate and Wills are heading to Santa Barbara. I hold it open and step forward to show him.

I like her.

Me too.

Here’s Gwyneth in a bikini.

With Steven Spielberg, look at that.

We flip through the pages until the clerk says $101.37.

Oh, hold on, he says. I want to give you my savers card. He struggles with the fanny pack that’s strapped to his chair. There were 600 zippers on that thing.

You can just punch in your number, I told him.

Well I can’t really use my fingers, he laughs and then sighs.

My bad.

He uses the heel of his hand to search for his card.

Just tell her your number, I say, she’ll punch it in. That’s what I always do. My card is probably stuck in the back seat of my car with some gum and an old poptart.

He laughs and then sighs again, tells the clerk his number, and says, I love coming here. I get to be around nice people.

They're nice because you're nice, I say.

He laughs and then sighs again, That's how it works, doesn't it.

The grocery would be a perfect place if there was a strip club in the back.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Mo has told me that in Ghana, on any given day, you might be
walking along a dirt road by yourself, looking out towards the horizon, and you
might see a speck, also moving, way off in the distance. As you move towards
it, and it towards you, you can see that it is a figure, probably human, and
it’s hard to look away. You keep moving, but you can’t help noticing that the
once speck/now-figure is waving his arms. Closer still,
maybe 2 or 3 hundred yards you notice that he has his hands around his mouth.
You can barely make out what he is saying but slowly you figure it out.

HELLLLLOOOOOO! MY FRIEND!!!!

This guy does not know you. He probably doesn't want to hang out with you, in fact most likely he is in a rush to get somewhere else, a
place that is far and that he needs to return from in the same day. Most likely
he has never seen you and will never see you again. He is just doing what you
do when you see another human out in the world: you say hello. You smile. You
act without judging. Who cares if that person is a jackass or stupid or listens
to talk radio or is a hipster or belonged to a sorority or has different
taste than you. You are both people, and you are both walking down a road. You
say hello.

I was thinking this yesterday when I walked past a girl who
said “Uhn” to me quietly and kept walking with her head down. I said “uhn” back
and smiled with my mouth only. It made me tired. It made me tired not because I
was dying to have a human connection. I avoid people all the time, I judge
them, I make assumptions. Sometimes I just want to be by myself! But it made me
tired because not saying hello caused so much more interior chatter than just
saying it and moving on.

Monday, July 22, 2013

My Internet has been off for a week now and I feel like a kidnapped victim who goes through horror, rage, grief, and finally acceptance. Wow, that's a horrible comparison but you know what I'm saying. I'm writing this post on my cellphone which I can only use one finger to type on because that's the kind of person I am. It should be back on today, at least that's what I am told, I have long stopped believing anything the people at Time Warner (my Internet connector) tell me.

Anyway, I can't say it's all bad having no connection, I've actually been reading, which is nice, but I'll be glad to get back to my regular routine. Here's an old post from my summer scrapbook.

Fools In A Car

We all used to sit in the backseat of the car with no seatbelts, sometimes as many as six kids back there in the summer. I liked to get in the way back bucket seat and lie on my back with my legs in the second row. Looking up I could see glittery trees turn to blue sky, turn to glittery trees turn to stop light hanging on a wire. It was like a slow motion strobe. How did anyone drive with so many kids in the car: screaming, pinching, crying, sometimes as many as three little arms out the window catching waves of air. I liked the back bucket seat even long after I was too big because at least it felt calm back there. Occasionally all the kids voices would get quiet and I could feel hands tickling towards my shin where someone would try to pull out a tiny hair. Usually this was relaxing, soft little hands doing a spider walk, not strong enough to hurt me, but a couple of times my leg would jerk and connect with someone's upper lip and then all hell broke loose. I know it didn't happen this way, but in those times when everyone was blaming, arguing, bleeding, I have in my memory that the car swerved in S shaped swoops, sometimes leaning on the side with two wheels in the air. I remember once my Uncle Dylan turned the radio up to full scratchy volume and "everybody plays the fool" by the Main Ingredient was on. At the time there was so much rage in that one small gesture that he may as well have slapped me across the face; I instantly felt ashamed and fully to blame. He divorced my aunt not long after that summer and it wasn't until many years later that I realized his blasting of the song had nothing to do with me.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

I was walking down my street a few days ago and Angel told me that Mr. Jing Jangles died. He yelled from where he was sitting on his porch. I stopped in front of the gate and we talked about him. I asked if they were going to have a funeral. I didn't say it but I wondered if they would bury him in the back yard and pour a 40 into the dirt, give him the hand sign, a moment of silence. Amigo, L.A. fuh eva.
We had a nickname for him, I said.
What was it?
(Should I say it? Was it too disrespectful? Would it piss him off?) Mr Jing Jangles.
Angel nodded a good while. He wasn't smiling. I started to get a little nervous. Finally, he said, "I like that you called him Mister".

RIP Jing.

Can you tell this guy only speaks Spanish?

Because they are gang members, Carlos and his family do not sit outside. In fact except for a handful of occasions, I have not seen them outside all together much at all. This is in contrast to Eddie's family who is outside every day, selling used clothing and furniture on the sidewalk. Once in a while I will see them getting in or out of their cars, they have a white BMW and a black Escalade, or sometimes Carlos is outside watering the lawn, but they do not hang out. Their little dog, a Chihuahua named Chomper has free reign of the neighborhood. He is not friendly, but he’s not mean either, he just trots up and down the street like he’s heading somewhere important. This dog holds his head high!Before we knew his real name we used to call him Mr. Jing Jangles and it kind of stuck: Mister because he seemed like an executive, and Jing Jangles because his balls were so big. They were huge, those things.

Hey Jing, hey Jingy, Jing-Jang come here!

We desperately wanted to pet him and make a fuss but he didn’t have time for us. He had places to go, things to do. A lot of people didn’t like him because he pooped on the sidewalk and chased their cats. But I always marveled at how busy he was, how I’d never seen him sit. He just represented for his family: fearless, lawless and regret free.

When we first moved in, Carlos’ Grandfather was still alive. He was the only one who came outside, and he’d walk around the block from 9 in the morning to 12 noon, just shuffling, smoking and staring straight ahead. Then he’d go in for lunch and a nap, and sometimes around 3 or 4 he’d be back out to smoke and do his laps. Papi never looked at anyone, or said hello or had any expression on his face. He was like a sleep-walking Bugs Bunny, shuffling slowly through a busy intersection while cars and buses whizzed by him.

The only thing Papi did notice was Mr. Jing. Once in a while Papi would get lost, he would take a right instead of a left, or he would walk to the bus station and sit on a bench. He never went too far, and he usually knew to come back for lunch. If he was late though, Carlos' mother would send Jing out to find him. She'd hold the screen door open and give him specific instructions and he'd trot off, head high, balls jangling. A little while later he'd return, heading up the street so proud of himself, the old guy shuffling and smoking behind him.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

I'm not sure why, in the 2 1/2 years that I've been writing this blog, that this is my most popular post; I think it has something to do with the photo (maybe it directs people here) but whatever the reason, I love it. I love that there are thousands of people who know my fighting name, and think, for a second, about one of my favorite inspirational quotes. What's your fighting name?

The Destroyer

I am not a violent person, and I’m not really interested in women’s fighting, but something about boxing speaks to me. Is it weird that I have an inner 200 pound man that wants to break someone’s jaw with his bare hand?

I started boxing more than 15 years ago mainly because I really wanted to hit someone, a specific someone. I still don’t know, if the opportunity arose, that I could do it. But it feels good to imagine. I’ve never trained every day and sometimes a year goes by when I don’t do it at all, but even now, from time to time, I imagine that person’s face as I’m hitting the bag. Boom.

Call me crazy.

The first gym I went to in Philadelphia I was the only white person and the only girl, but no one ever made fun of me; although the trainer there, an old guy named Bobby, did laugh at the size of my wrists. "Look at that!" He circled his thumb and first finger around it with room to spare. He could have crushed my wrist like a used paper cup. Before he taped my hands, before I jumped rope or did any sit-ups, he gave me a name: The Destroyer. If I had made it up myself, it would have been ridiculous, but he made it sound like it was a possibility.

Float like a butterfly, Sting like a bee.

That quote has kind of lost it’s meaning from overuse, but if you really think about it, it's a good motto to live by.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

When I was in college, I stayed in Philadelphia for the summers. I either had a job, or was still taking classes, or just enjoyed miserable situations. No one stayed on campus in the summer, no one except dorks, nerds, thugs, and me. Woohoo. Here's an oldie about me and this Ethiopian dude who asked me to dinner.

Dinner For Two

I have gotten myself into a lot of strange situations because I couldn’t say no. Odd dates I’ve had, parties, even entire relationships, all happened because somehow I managed to close the door on the fog horn/bomb shelter alarm/fire truck siren that went off in my head.

This is not something I am proud of.

It’s not something I’m proud of, and yet I can justify this tendency by explaining that I am an optimist. If the little angel and devil inside my head are arguing, No don’t do it!/ Go ahead, it’ll be fine, I’ll always listen to that second voice .

Me: I sound like an alcoholic.

Me: Whatev

See what I mean? All day this goes on.

Once I accepted a dinner invitation from this Ethiopian guy who I had walked home with a couple of times from the subway. I think what happened is he told me where he was from and I said, oh I love Ethiopian food, and he said he would cook me some real Ethiopian food tomorrow night at 7, and I said uh, ok.

I wish I could watch a video of that whole little scenario. I’d watch it like a football coach watches highlights on a Sunday night. I’d break it down. Slow motion. Rewind. Jot down a few notes. Play it back again.

Did my face show the horror/shock/disbelief at what I was being told, or was it cool until after I spoke and realized what I had just said? And then once it realized what it had just agreed to, was it frozen like a deer in headlights or was it one big phony/confused smile like a politician at a debate.

Huh?

I don’t know.

All I can tell you is that it wasn’t the first or last time my mouth said something I hadn’t realized it was going to say until after it was out. But I remember that I definitely did not vanish into thin air after saying it; I definitely stood there and got directions to his house; I definitely said see you tomorrow before turning down my street, and I definitely said No possible way, What the fuck were you thinking, You stupid idiot fucking moron! as soon as I closed the door behind me.

I didn’t go.

I mean come on. This guy followed me from the subway a few times. We barely spoke more than 10 sentences. There was no spark. There was no unspoken undercurrent. None. Nothing. Jesus, Come on. I justified my behavior with the thought that this would not lead to anything good and quite possibly something very, very bad. I stopped taking the subway for a while, rode my bike, slunk around on my tiptoes and peeked around corners like the pink panther.

But then my guilt caught up with me; I thought what if he had actually cooked the meal (of course he had), I thought I was being racist (of course I was), I thought, what was I worried about, he had glasses and he wore both straps of his back pack. What was wrong with me? And as soon as I started thinking these things, I ran into him. At first I tried to pretend like nothing happened, Oh hey! Good to see you! But then I couldn’t ignore the huge turd between us, he seemed angry and sad in that way that is very attractive. We agreed to have dinner the next night.

I wish I could tell you we had a great time, that we laughed and shared stories and became best friends who later went to see movies together and talked about our problems and dreams but never had any sexual tension, so remained buds without any problem. But that’s not what happened. And nothing scary or bad happened either. I got to his apartment, which was a single room without a kitchen (just a hot plate) or bathroom (it was in the hall). All it had was a bed, which was set like a table for one. My memory of the entire evening/charade/ordeal was that there was mostly silence. I talked about my dog and he talked about being attacked by one. He served me food but did not eat anything. He stared at my boobs the entire time. He stared at my boobs for so long I was worried they might start talking to him. The food was so hot, I thought my ears were bleeding and I said so. We looked out the windows, he to the right, me to the left. I said I needed to go and he said okay.

What did I learn from this experience? Did it teach me to just say no? No thanks. That’s so kind of you but no, it would be awkward, I know this in my heart. Did it teach me to prepare a little better next time, think of it like an interview, get the guy’s story, make a bigger effort. Nope. No it did not. It taught me none of those things. In fact I’m still trying to figure it out.

Monday, July 8, 2013

In the summer after I was 14 I used to visit my father in
California. It’s weird that in remembering that, I just used the word Father,
which is less familiar than Dad, but that’s how it felt then. I visited a guy I
didn’t know very well, an adult man I was related too. We both tried to pretend
it was normal, or at least I did: this situation. He’d pick me up in a
two-seater sports car and we’d drive to the beach without saying much. It
wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it was a strange combination of odd and
normal. It felt oddly normal, or normally odd, something like that. The beach
was different from the ones I was used to on the east coast, at least this
particular one, which was near Venice. There were homeless people and buskers,
transvestites and gangs of surfers, rasta dudes and girls, girls, girls. It was
dirty and lonely and scary, but it was exciting too. We’d go to lunch and sit
outside at a café and watch the people. My father would do things to try to
make me laugh: he’d take a sip of water and miss his mouth, or drop his fork
and bonk his head on the table when he reached to get it. It was hard not to
laugh but I remember looking around to make sure no one else noticed. I’ve
since come to learn that 14-year-old girls are intimidating in their silence
and judgment and obscene beauty and that my father had no idea what to do with
me, but then I remember being desperate to be liked and always feeling awkward,
and even though inwardly I loved his shenanigans, I was more concerned with not
wanting to be embarrassed. I was always slightly relieved when he left me alone
to walk around while he went to a meeting for work. I felt sophisticated and
independent buying a soda at the little market and walking to the beach knowing
I had keys to an apartment in my purse, just like a grown up. I’d “browse” at
the sunglasses stands, the silver jewelry tables, the wall-cases of every scent
of incense imaginable. People were friendly to me, I thought, because I was
their peer, but now I realize it’s probably because I was a kid.

Friday, July 5, 2013

People in my neighborhood go crazy with the explosives. Last night, after shooting off fireworks in the street for two solid hours, someone set a full drawer of clothes on fire. Everyone stood around drinking beer and watching. Even Carlos was out. And my neighbors who I recently heard having sex and now feel uncomfortable being around, so I overcompensate, (which makes me even more of a perv), by being super friendly and cheerful. And three year old kids who were so wired from sugar/explosions/the late hour that they looked and behaved like tiny crack heads. Everyone was out except me. I could only watch periodically from the upstairs porch because I was helping my dog try to survive the massive coronary she was having from barking and digging a hole through the door/the couch/the floor. At one point she looked at me, her chest heaving, her head tilted,

What the fuck are you people doing?

This is what we do babe, we're celebrating.

This makes no sense.

I don't know what to tell you.

Goddammit!

Yep.

Everyone's going to DIE.

Not tonight.

---This was not a consolation and she started barking and spinning in circles. I tried to explain.---

It's starts with the day. You go to the super store and get your beer and your meat. You come home and it's hot so you put on a red white and blue bikini and wash your car out in the street while this plays on the boom box.

Then you start drinking beer and your kids get in the pool and stay there for the next 6 hours doing cannon balls and holding each other's heads under water. Then, if you live in a small town, you go to a parade and wave little flags at the passing firetrucks. If you live near the beach, you go sit on the sand. If you live in the city, you drink. Then you eat some greasy meat with your friends and drink more beer. Then it gets dark and you start blowing things up and setting things on fire. And if you're lucky, you get to lie in the grass and make out with someone under the stars. If you're not lucky you get to stay home with your dog and keep her from jumping through the glass door.

The dog stops panting for a second and stares at me.

"This is America" I tell her. "It's how we do".

That does not sound good.

I think some of it sounds great.

But why?

---I pause, I'm not really sure, and that's a fair question. I have to think about it, but then it dawns on me:---

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

I saw some comedy the other night with my brother and sister, and one of the comedians talked about pooping his pants. He said shat, which I think is a more manly word; a little more aggressive, like the whole thing wasn’t a horrible mistake. He explained how it happened in his car on the way home from a few meetings where he had some strong coffee and a fruit shake; he said he wasn’t sick, he just didn’t make it back fast enough. I liked him right away.

After the show we stayed to meet him, the comedian, and the first thing I said after introducing myself was that I too had once pooped my pants. My sister jumped in to quickly point out that, haha, everyone poops their pants when they’re a kid, but I, not realizing she was trying to save me, continued, No no no, it was when I was older.

You know I have to stop here for a minute before I go on.

I don’t drink much. I just never got into it. I can count on my hands the number of times in my life that I’ve bought a bottle of something or other. It seems weird when I think about it, like I must be exaggerating, but I’m not. I was a bartender, so that could have something to do with it, but really I didn’t drink much before that. I just don’t like the taste. I don’t drink much but I have something in common with people who do: I occasionally blurt out things that are inappropriate/odd/inconsequential and then stand in the shame-silence where you hear a pin drop.

Yes, I’m like a drunk person.

I don’t drink much but, of course, I have been drunk and on one of these times I pooped my pants. I was still in college with my boyfriend at the time, who was actually incredibly sweet and kind (although I do remember a lot of laughing and Oh Jesus-ing) and it was a testament to his character that he didn’t leave me in the bar bathroom/street corner/subway where it happened all the way home.

Anyway, this is what I said to the comedian, except that I didn’t tell him the whole story. When he asked me why I pooped my pants, how it happened, I said: I was drunk. Boom. Silence. Crickets. Awkward slow motion head turns. I think my sis even said Oh well, like she was trying to help me out, but it was too late, what was done was done. Now I was on my own. Now the guy probably thought (sadly) that I was a professional, a sad, smelly, dried out old bag who hangs out in bars down on the east side of Wilshire.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

From my bed this morning it sounds like someone is mowing his lawn right outside my window. I know this can’t be true because 1. It’s 4:30 in the morning and 2. My window overlooks a sidewalk. I consider for a second whether or not I am imagining this sound, whether it spilled out of my dream, instead of the reverse. I decide to get up and have a look.

It’s a truck.

It’s a truck, but it’s so dilapidated it might actually be a lawnmower with a cab on the front and some rotted wood panels duct-taped on the back. Some guy is routing through the garbage cans lined up on the street, while the driver slowly inches forward behind him like a hungry pedophile following a pack of cheerleaders.

This is how I wake up.

I have a good yawn and a stretch. I wish I could be that industrious. They are looking for pieces of metal, these pirates. It can’t be a big moneymaker but there they are, driving through the nabe, searching for bits and scraps to trade in and hustle a couple of bucks.

Lately I get stuck in the morning trying to think of things to write about. I think maybe I should post a few photos. I think about how I should write more about myself, and my secrets, about my relationships and desires and what’s happening with my career. About one person I miss so much I get a pain in my chest when I think of him; about how I wish things didn’t have to be so difficult. And then I think in an odd way I already am writing about those things, that they may sound like one thing but really they’re another.

Monday, July 1, 2013

7/1/13 Monday
Morning: Los Angeles. Temperatures have dropped. A new month has started. I am
using this week to get some other work completed so I’ll be posting oldies as
well as links to cool stuff I found online.

This is from a documentary called Shake The Dust, by Adam Sjoberg. It's a good title for today.

Subscribe via email

Friends and Family

Followers

About Me

I have 3 children, 7 parents and am the oldest of 10 kids who did not grow up in the same house. I talk to dogs, people in line, and occasionally to myself. Sometimes I feel like I am part of a walking carnival.